


(it's the season of grace) coming out of the void

by hihoplastic



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-14
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-22 14:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her lessons are all the same: a wicked man with a wicked box, hurdling through space and time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \- a/n: spoilers for _a good man goes to war_ , but not spoilers/previews for the second half of series six. warning for mentions of child abuse, but nothing graphic.  
> \- endless thanks to tenacious_err for the beta/suggestions, and to bigdamnxenafan and leanstein for the support and prodding.  
> \- title from _the atheist christmas carol_ by vienna teng

Breaches and bones; treble and bass.

Madame Kovarian makes one mistake, but she never learns what it was; what it will be.

There are no questions at the end, like she'd always imagined there would be; she isn't naive. She knew one day it would change, it would all come back around, the universe evening out the score. She always imagined a moment, a confrontation, and she has prepared her answers since the start.

But there are no questions, not at the end.

Not even a whisper.

\--

The Gamma Forests are awash in blue and green and silver; sun and sky and earth, curling around the Doctor as he runs, looking for a pond that doesn't exist and a melody that can't be sung. _There are no rivers here,_ Lorna tells him, _not in these parts._

No water for miles and miles.

\--

They start out as fairy tales:

Once upon a time, through all of space, there lived an evil man. An evil man with an evil box, destroyer of worlds; of Practice; of hope. A man so feared, the greatest warriors of history, past and future, bowed their necks and laid down their swords, their spears, their battleships. They cowered at his name and fled at the sound of the box; her keepers play the sound, the thrum of breaks and engines and she wants to cover her ears, but they never let her. "Listen," says the woman with the silver eye, "listen closely. Listen."

The box settles. The door swings open. Footsteps rise and fall. A high-pitched whirring sound. The click of a lock. Another door.

And then silence.

\--

"Fear is always the first conditional," she'd said once, on a planet controlled by lights and ruled over by flames; the sick always died and the living always suffered and the Doctor tried to free them all with nothing more powerful than his own voice.

It was so off-handed, then, as he concentrated on everything all at once, but now it makes him pause. He watches as she stares out the open door of the TARDIS, watching the stars float by like ships.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she says, and he shouldn't be surprised that she knows; she always knows.

The Doctor shakes his head fondly - "She's always beautiful" - and crosses to the controls, fiddling with a few buttons and keys. "You can go outside."

River nods - "I know." - but doesn't move.

\--

The TARDIS lands not far from the commotion. The sonic whirs and alarms blare, and it takes him a moment to realise they aren't for him. He finds bodies, unconscious, not so much a trail as a labyrinth, and he tracks the intruder to a lab deep beneath the complex. Footsteps pound the grating above them, and he knows by their pace and direction that time is limited.

He skitters to a halt in the doorway, surprised and confused when he spots a familiar figure hunched over a set of controls.

"River?"

She whirls, gun raised and lowered in the same second. Her eyes flash with anger and something else, but it's gone too quickly and she's already refocused.

"What are you doing here? You're supposed to be with the Ponds--"

"Wrong me," she says, but not _spoilers._ He studies her for a moment, the curve of her back, her profile as he moves closer. There are lines around her eyes he doesn't recognise, echoes in her thoughts he's never heard before. They're out of time, again, but off; jagged.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

"Looking for you. Not this you, obviously – little you; Pond you!” He almost giggles at that. “Though this is--"

"Melody isn't here," she interrupts, and her use of the third person throws him.

"But you said--"

"You're too late."

He blanches, stricken, and she throws him a sympathetic glance. "I'm sorry."

He nods, watching her quietly for a moment. "When are we?" he asks finally.

"Out of order, as usual," she remarks absently. He can tell by the air around her, the set of her shoulders and the arch of her neck that she’s older, much older. She’s crossing their timeline, further ahead than he is behind; closer to the Library than the Byzantium, and the realisation cinches a string between his hearts.

The monitor she's working at sparks and rattles, breaking his concentration, and she curses in what must be at least six different languages. He's at her side in a moment, scanning the now dark machine.

"Couplings blew," he comments. She glowers at him and moves to another console. "What are you doing?"

"Virus," she snaps, "Wiping the drives." She punches a few more keys, and a red warning flashes across the screen. "They've locked me out," she huffs. "Again."

The Doctor fumbles with the switches on his screwdriver and tries again while River relocates, typing furiously and pulling wires from one monitor to next.

He's about to demand more information when she cuts him off abruptly. "You should get back to the TARDIS - they'll be here soon and it isn't going to be pretty."

“Breaking and entering rarely is."

She ignores him, eyes glued to her work. He peers over her shoulder, much closer than necessary, and points the sonic at an icon in the corner. "88-alpha burst routed through the primary breaker should give you access."

"Doctor," she warns.

"I'm helping!" he protests.

The screen turns green and demands access codes; she types them in without hesitation, then turns to him gravely. "Trust me, Doctor, you don't want to be a part of this."

"Why not?"

She doesn't answer. The computer blinks, the firewall collapsed, and she slides a disc from her pocket to insert into the core; he grabs her wrist before she manages.

"Why not?" he repeats, slow and firm.

"I don't have time to explain. We've got about thirty seconds before this place is flooded with soldiers and I, for one, would like to get out of here alive."

He doesn't move. His eyes hold hers and he searches her face, her thoughts, trying to break in; it's a steal trap, deadlocked, and he fails.

"Doctor."

He refocuses, looking for something - anything - in her expression that will help him decide.

"Let go of my hand," she says lowly. He has no doubt she could get away if she wanted to; he's stronger, but she's a fighter, and he knows he wouldn't stand a chance.

He also knows she isn't trying.

Slowly, reluctantly, he releases her, and she slams the disc into the machine. Another set of alarms blare, footsteps redirect themselves, and she grabs his hand. "Run."

They run, dodging sentries and robots at every turn. River's blaster is set to stun, much to his relief, but he still winces as the bodies hit the ground. He makes a sharp turn, the TARDIS in sight before realizing she isn't behind him. He calls her name, doubling back and tracing her signal, finding her again in another lab, the central science lab, wiring a small, black box to the main console.

"What are you doing?"

"Shutting it down."

"They're right behind us."

"You should go."

He huffs indignantly. "I'm not leaving you."

"I've got a vortex manipulator, I'll be fine."

"That's not what I meant."

He grabs her suddenly, stopping her frantic motions.

"Doctor, we don't have time--"

"I know. The virus was to get you control here. You're setting up the mainframe to encounter a firewall that’ll send residual power surges through the entire complex, effectively wiping every file and reading ever stored, but you haven't got enough power. The back-up circuits will override and save as much information as they can to the secondary source, which, judging by the fancy-schmancy of this operation, is probably off planet and probably even more guarded than this one."

"I know. That's why I'm changing the adapters to interact with and spread another virus when it reaches the back-up drives."

"A virus within a virus," he muses. "Clever. But you still haven't got time."

"If you'd stop talking and let me work--"

"Let me help."

She freezes momentarily, hands stilling over the wires. "I can't."

"Why not?"

She shakes her head and reconnects the circuit, denying him an answer.

"So I'm just supposed to stand here?" he demands angrily.

"You're supposed to get back to the TARDIS and get out of--"

"I'm not leaving you--"

"Doctor--"

She's scared. He missed it before, somehow, but the tone of her voice is begging, pleading with him to go, not to intervene. Whether it's for her own safety or his he doesn't know, though he can guess; but he's never been very good at either and before she can protest he's disconnecting cables and replicating her actions on the other side of the machine. She tries to argue, but the shouting is closer and the lights are brighter and they've barely connected the last wire when the room is stormed.

They shoot first and she dives, pushing the Doctor out of the way and under cover.

"Stay down!" she orders, turning and firing shots over the desk.

The Doctor sonics the floor panels, trying to find a way out and River keeps up a steady stream of cover fire, never letting more than two guards fully enter the room at a time.

There's a lucky shot, a spark, and she cries out suddenly, dropping back behind the console. The Doctor looks up; her hand is covered in blood and her blaster is smoking. "River, are you--"

"Keep working!"

She pulls a pistol from the holster at her back. The four soldiers who entered the room fall quickly; she aims for hands and arms and legs and feet, trying to keep her shots steady with her injured hand. Blood smears and the bodies fall and the Doctor feels sick, the smell so close and harsh.

"Aha!" he cries suddenly, scrambling for a panel near the corner. "I think I've got--"

"Doctor!"

He's on the floor suddenly, his screwdriver rolling away under the desk several meters away. He looks up just in time to see River standing where he was, where he should have been, red spreading out from a point on her shirt. He looks up just in time to see her fire, no hesitation, no mercy, at the man who shot at him. He's human, or looks human, wearing a lab coat and a badge, and he doesn't have time to cry out; the bullet hits the man squarely between the eyes, and he falls. River drops just as quickly, snatching the screwdriver and throwing it back to him as she keeps firing. The metal is covered in blood, her blood. He's about to ask if she's all right when her gun clicks, empty, and he quickly sonics open the panel. She shoves him down into the hatch and they hit the floor in a tumble, the long drop straining their knees.

She grabs his hand a second later and they're running, sonicing their way though doors and windows and hatches. She disarms more than a few men, human and not, so fast and so deadly, and she's a lot more graceful than he'd expected, fighting. It's all turns and tosses and everything is so precise, so perfect; they never lay a hand on her.

They dive into the TARDIS just as another unit rounds the corner, and he scrambles for the controls. The box shakes as the blast hits the door, but they dematerialise quickly enough, calming their spiral once inside the Vortex.

The silence is deafening.

He breathes in deeply, stroking his hands over the controls to calm himself.

River's breathing heavily, leaning against the wall near the door, her hair framing her face. He approaches her slowly, tentatively.

"You're hurt."

She tries to straighten up, to reassure him, but her good hand flies to her side and she winces. "I'll be fine," she tries, but it's through gritted teeth and closed eyes, and the Doctor smirks fondly.

Slowly, gently, he places a hand on her elbow and urges her to lean on him, wrapping his arm around her shoulder; the questions can wait for now.

\--

They run from the Silence. From the footsteps of the Anglican Guard, marching surely behind them. He grabs her hand - tear-stained and dirty - and pulls her through the underbrush, away from the camp and away from the barriers; away from the nightless sky she's used to. They run, and Lorna barely feels her feet against the ground, never feels a branch break or a leaf crackle, as the Doctor holds her hand tight enough to bruise.

They run, and run, and run, and run, and run…

\--

Her lessons are all the same: a wicked man with a wicked box, hurdling through space and time. All powerful and all knowing, everywhere and nowhere all at once. There are pictures on her walls, menacing faces that haunt her nightmares and paralyse her dreams. He doesn't have a name, just a title. A word. A feared word she grows to hate. Pictures of dead bodies and ashen planets. "He killed your race," they all say, "every last one. He tried to kill you. Out of fear. He fears you, as others will grow to fear you, anyone who sides with him."

She studies the texts and stares at the pictures and only cries when she's positive no one is watching. "You must defeat him. You will save us," the woman says, wrapping little fingers around heavy metal. "You will destroy him."

"I don't understand," the child says, and the woman with the silver eye purses her lips in anger.

"In time," she says, and leaves the girl to a room of white, barren walls, the sound of engines echoing through the night.

\--

She always imagined it would be him.

Standing crooked and tall, staring down at her from his pedestal, eyes bright with past weeping and sorrow, she always assumed he would bring the rain down and the flood; all those tales of fire and ice, a hero in the body of a criminal. It sank into her, like it sank into all God's soldiers, until she saw no other way for it to end.

When it does end - a sharp crack in time, a seam, a powder keg - it isn't how Kovarian projected.

It's so, so much worse.

\--

 _The Silence fall, and she remembers._

 _One at a time, each clearer than the last - memories, each like their own little brand, searing her skin. Metal boxes and grey faces; silver lights echoing off white-washed walls; the sound of engines; pin pricks and dust and her reflection in the concave glass._

 _River doesn't ask for them, sometimes doesn't even want them, but the Silence grow weaker and she grows stronger and slowly they merge, each image and thought and feeling, fusing together to complete the picture. She always knew there were gaps - objects in the corner of her eye, reactions that never made sense, photographs so familiar and yet so misunderstood._

 _It takes years for everything to fall into place, years of research, years of questions, years of dead-ends and confusion and a cold, empty anger that she can't explain. It curls in her chest, hearts strangled and lungs filled and the Doctor tries to quell her guilt, but he can't - he can't do anything, not this time. He can't save her, she knows._

 _Not from this._

\--

There were too many guns.

Too much anger for his taste, too much singed skin and ash. He cleans her wounds calmly, too calmly, and she scrutinises his every movement. She's waiting for him to ask, but he doesn't; not yet. Her hand is wrecked, shards of debris lodged in the skin around the hole in her palm.

"I hate firecrackers," she mutters, hissing as he numbs the area with a cool gel.

He helps her pull her shirt off, wincing at the sight of the tear in her side. It isn't too serious, he knows, but the weapons are brutal, exploding shells, and even a flesh wound can be dangerous.

He bickers with her amiably, cleaning the cut on her side while she tends to her hand, picking out the scraps of metal carefully before bandaging the area. He's focused, too concerned about torn skin and the sight of bone to be distracted; fair skin and sleek muscles and she's beautiful, part of him registers. Even dishevelled and dirty and scarred, she's beautiful.

River lets him run his scans and ask his questions and poke her with a myriad of strange instruments, and he wonders if her patience is an inborn virtue or a developed one. Either way she stays, forgiving him his nervous habits, before slipping away once he's thoroughly satisfied and sufficiently distracted.

It isn't until later when he's finally stopped, finally allowed the day to sink in and create a space for itself in his mind that he remembers just how much gunfire there was, just how many bodies. Not by his hand, not directly, but the guilt clings to him like sand to slick skin, and he sighs.

Even the slightest hesitation he could have taken comfort in, but there was none. Every shot, every step, everything precise and purposeful; despite her injuries, she barely broke a sweat. Everything was mechanical -- except when she moved, so fast and so light he didn't register her motion until he hit the ground, rolling with her away from the fire. She caught his eye then, just for a second, just long enough to know that he was safe, and all he saw was fear. Fear, then relief, then nothing; she turned around and killed the man who shot at him; that would have hit him if she hadn't intervened.

The Doctor shakes his head, the memories dislodging and floating away into the recesses of his mind, at least for now. They'll need to talk about it, he knows; he'll need to convince her she was wrong and she'll need him to understand all the ways she wasn't. He hates it, but he's learning; he just hopes he'll learn enough in time.

\--

Lorna leads the Doctor to the very edges of the Forest, crowded in purple leaves and gold grass and a distant, distant hum. The suns never rise here, she tells him, looking down over the shadowy canyon.

"Doctor," she asks, her voice as small and young as she is, hidden in the branches of a lame tree. "What are you looking for?"

He doesn't answer, but he holds her gaze and gives her a brilliant smile.

Below, the voices of the Marines echo up along the vines and the rocks and the water.

\--

There is always doubt.

Small and neglected in the back of her heart, there's a confusion and a hope that can never be explained away. So wicked and so wise, but so, so alone. _Doesn't that matter?_ she wants to ask, but they only hit her or forget her when she does.

"He stole you from your family," says the woman with the silver eye. "He tried to control you. But we saved you, and now you will save us."

She curls her fingers around the handle and nods, unsure but angry, filled with screams and terror and hatred. Her mother's face, shadowed in red, _be brave, very brave. We'll find you._

"They can't find you," the Colonel says flatly, without remorse, the language of the Forests unnatural on his tongue. "They're dead. The Warrior killed them all."

\--

 _She doesn't tell him, but he knows._

 _Not the man she meets in the laboratory, not the one who visits America. Not these versions, not these Times; but the Doctor, her Doctor, the one who lied and lies and will lie -- he knows._

 _What she's done. What she will do._

 _It won't matter when she's through; when it finally comes to a head. When the last shot is fired, it could all be undone, she knows. But even if it does, they're smart. They'll remember. And they'll know she won; their little warrior child. All grown up._

 _They'll_ know.

\--

He tries to cover the start, the brief shaking of his muscles and bones as his body registers her presence. He tries to mask it with a grim smile, but she knows - she always knows - and she tilts her head, her fingers drumming against the soft arm of the chair.

"Melody Pond," he acknowledges, clearing his throat. He reaches for his gun, but finds his holster empty. "I wasn't expecting you."

She smiles - the nerves in his feet begin to tremble - and shrugs her shoulders lightly. "Where would be the fun in that?"

He scowls, and her eyes dance in amusement. His gaze sweeps over her, trained and precise: the curve of her back, the swell of her chest, the shadow she casts to the floor. Her position is twofold, he knows - to show she's calm, controlled, and entirely confident; and also unarmed. He looks for signs, for clues of what's to come.

"You won't find anything," she says, an almost sing-song lilt to her tone. "After all, I was trained by the very best. Wasn't I, Colonel?"

"And it still wasn't enough," he says bitterly, blame rich on his tongue.

She merely shrugs. "You get points for effort."

His eyes flicker to the security camera hidden in the wall.

"What do you want?"

"So, so many things. None of which are actually attainable thanks to you; though you did plan everything so _perfectly._ "

She rises, circling him. The Colonel stands as proudly as she remembers - hands folded behind his back, spine straight, legs shoulder-width apart. He doesn't flinch when she leans in, her breath hot against his ear.

"I have been wondering, however."

He stares straight at the wall ahead. "Wondering what?"

There's a long, empty pause. The silence itches, and he resists the urge to turn, to shake out his limbs, to keep her in his sights. She's behind him now, somewhere, but he doesn't know how far and he knows he can't move fast enough; he never could. When she speaks finally she's so close, nearly pressed against him, and he can't tell if her question is a continuation or a non-sequitur.

"Did they pay you?" she asks lightly, tracing a finger over the lapels of his coat, medals dangling there like spiders. "Did they give you this palace?"

She steps away, gesturing to the ornate furniture, the high ceilings and long floors and endless, endless luxury. "Or did they offer you something else?" she asks, turning her back to him completely and pouring two drinks into tall glasses from the bar. "Rank?" She adds one of the many spices arranged on the counter to both glasses, fingers pinching the substance into the dark liquid. "Honour?" The drink glows a soft yellow at the top, blending down into crimson and black as she stirs, first one, then the other. Satisfied, she turns and offers him a glass. "Or was it simply pride?"

He stares, unmoving. Her lips curve into a smirk as she takes a delicate sip. He still refuses and she shrugs, setting the drink on the nearest table. She returns to her seat, legs crossed, leaning back into the cushions casually. She takes another sip, eyebrows raised in question.

"Well?"

"My consolations are none of your concern."

"No," she agrees, then drops her voice to a sly whisper, "But they do make excellent table conversation, don't they?"

"Is that why you're here?" he asks dryly. "Conversation?"

"Have we something to discuss?"

It's a dare. Bold and bright and a bit inspiring, if he were willing to admit it. She knows he knows; her ease assured him of that instantly. But her look, so smooth and deceiving, haunts his muscles painfully and there's a voice in the back of his head, buried low and covered with years of training, a little voice that he tries desperately to quell: _run_ , it says. _For God's sake, run._

As if echoing his thoughts, her voice breaks the pause. "Colonel Runaway," she muses. "Pity that never caught on, I rather like it. It suits you."

He raises his arms, letting them fall easily to his sides. "Am I running now?" he questions.

She smiles, a little secret curving the edges of her lips. "Not yet."

His jaw twitches. "So. To what do I owe this…unexpected pleasure?" His words are tight and scornful, but if anything they only amuse her further.

"Can't a girl just drop in on her old Master now and then?"

The title echoes back at him bitterly, but her words are so light, her smile so fixed, that he hesitates.

"You were a Warrior, Melody. The best Warrior. You still are."

She recognises the offering, the extended palm, and ignores it. "But not the warrior you expected, am I?"

"You were corrupted."

She laughs. He flinches, hard, and it only makes her smile brighter. "Oh, Colonel. You have _no_ idea."

"You can't run forever," he warns.

She arches an eyebrow - "Can't I?" - and sets her drink down on the table adjacent to the chair, folding her hands primly in her lap. "Tell me, Colonel - do you still train Recruits?"

He frowns, trying to guess ahead. "I assume you know the answer to that."

She nods vaguely. "Four-hundred twenty-five Anglican Marines at your command. That's quite an impressive cavalry for a man of your age."

"They're good men," he says firmly.

Her smile fades into something he can't place, something haunting, akin to sadness. "Aren't they all?"

"Why are you here?" he demands harshly, growing impatient.

"Isn't it obvious?" she asks sweetly; the sound burns his ears. There's a gun in the table drawer behind him, a meter to his left. She's five from it; he knows he'd never make it.

"And what does your Doctor think of this?"

She smiles tightly. "You seem to be implying the Doctor would care." She blinks at him in false innocence. "I thought he was a brutal warrior. Why would he mourn a life such as your own?"

"You had the best education. The best training. We gave you--"

"What you _gave_ me," she interrupts, "amounts to very little in light of what you _took_."

"We made you what you are," he argues. "A strong woman. A Warrior."

"Doctor," she corrects, eyes gleaming at his confusion. "I'm accredited now. Aren't you _proud_."

She's mocking him, each inflexion, each motion of her hands, every blink - they're all intentional, all signals. She lets the pause fester, watching every twitch and every flicker of his gaze. He's waiting for the guards that aren't there, the security that will never come. He's waiting, just like he always has, because he can't run.

"Do you know what the Church still executes for, Colonel?" she asks suddenly, casually; like it's nothing more than a line in a play. "Thousands of years later, they've abandoned almost every stigma that plagued them up through the 31st century. There's only one, True Sin now. Punishable by death." She tilts her head curiously. "Do you know what it is?"

"I'm a bishop," he snaps. "I know all God's laws."

"Then tell me, _bishop_ ," she drawls, leaning forward, arms draped over her legs. "What is the greatest Sin?"

He freezes. River waits, still and patient, her half-empty glass dangling precariously from her slim fingers. The Colonel shifts, the slightest motion betraying his distress. Finally he dodges, a question of his own buried in a quotation:

" 'For as by the one man's disobedience the many were made sinners, so by the one man's obedience the many will be made righteous.' "

She nods slowly, relaxing again into the cushions. "Romans, 5:18-19."

"Chapter and Verse." He tilts his head in intrigued approval. "I'm surprised you remember."

Her smirk disappears instantly, tone dangerous and cold. "I remember everything."

He shakes his head, finally moving, lowering himself stiffly into the chair across from her and taking the drink perched on the table.

"The Doctor is far more guilty of Sin than we ever were," he reasons.

The amused curve of her lips returns, and she arches an eyebrow at him evenly. "The Church is judging by degrees, now?"

"You know it's true," he ignores her. "We never lied to you." He tilts his head curiously, taking a careful drink and watching her reaction; she doesn't blink; he swallows. "Everything he's done…how can you trust him?"

" 'For since death came through a man, the resurrection of the dead comes also through a man,' " she parrots. He stares. Drawing the last taste of her drink, she stands, passing him slowly and leaning down to whisper in his ear. "You're on the wrong side, Colonel Manton. You always have been."

He waits, timing his question until she's near the door; her footsteps tell him she's already stopped, ahead of him, awaiting his card. He grimaces, but covers it with a cool, breezy tone: "Do you really think you're just going to walk out of here?"

Her smile is brutal. "Do you?"

He falters - just a fraction of a second, barely at all, but she catches it; she knows.

"The greatest Sin," she says, just as he feels the first flush of heat under his skin, "isn't death. It isn't vengeance. It isn't even a war."

His hands shake just slightly; he stares at the glass in his hand, the edge of fear crawling along his skin. "What have you done?" he demands.

"It's believing you can become like God. Isn't that right, Colonel?"

He buckles suddenly, his chest tight, eyes hot, a thousand needles everywhere. He gasps, collapsing to the floor. Her shadow falls over him as she kneels, fingers once again tracing his medals, his honours, his rewards.

"You took my childhood. You made me your Prodigal." She leans in close, lips to his ear. "How many of your 'good men' were children, Colonel? Or was I _special?_ "

"R-River," he mouths; his body shakes and his throat is tight, but he manages to ask, just one more time.

" 'I am not a Fool,' " she echoes quietly, the faintest hint of remorse flashing in her eyes. " 'I am a Mercenary of the Lord. I am Ordained in the Light of the Spirit to cast Judgment upon those who Trespass.' "

She watches as his body spasms then stills, mid-gasp or mid-word she doesn't know; she never let him beg, a small, unnecessary gift. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, and she rises slowly, leaving him untouched.

" 'I am not a Fool. I am a Mercenary of the Lord,' " she murmurs to the empty room. " 'I will uphold The Law.' "

\--

 _She finds the box in Madame Kovarian's vacant office, eighty years into the future, buried in a pocket underneath the sleek, white floor. Covered in dust and sin and fear, she pulls the box from its hiding place and opens it: a wooden doll, a paperclip, and photographs. Three little girls, all in different places and different times. They're all holding the doll, tattered and worn. They aren't the same, but they are._

 _Three little girls._

 _One photograph: a shed, a suitcase, a house with an overgrown lawn._

 _It's too familiar, too perfect. She remembers that doll - its smell, the texture of its hair, its smooth, wooden face. She didn't before, but she does now; a movie reel come to life in her mind._

 _The photographs are numbered: 1 2 3_

 _Small, bigger, biggest._

 _She remembers a suit; grey faces and long arms. Kovarian's steely grin. Silver and white. Concave glass. And then: the house with the overgrown lawn; the soft hum of engines; the teenage girl._

 _The photographs fall to the floor._

\--

The Doctor kisses Lorna on the forehead and gives her a gift and sends her on her way. Back to her family. Back to the Forests, away from the chanting and the marching and the big, silver box that shadows the canyon.

He sends her away, knowing that what he's done now will kill her then, and he worries at how this guilt bleeds so effortlessly into all the rest. But there isn't time, there's never time, and he makes his way slowly toward the compound without a backwards glance.

\--

She is still a child when the Silence come for her. She isn't afraid: not of the dark, not of the writing on the walls, not of the strange colours outside her white-washed room. She isn't even afraid of the engines, ever-present, always haunting. She isn't afraid of anything, until they push her into a white suit with a glass window and she can't move, can barely breathe. Everything is stiff and full of pain and she begs them to let her out, to let her go.

"You escaped," he says, gentle but firm. "You fought back."

"I was supposed to," she snaps, pulling away from him angrily. He doesn't know yet. Doesn't understand. She called for him and he came, but not at the right time; never at the right time. "I did everything - _everything_ \- they wanted. I played right into their hands."

The Doctor follows her relentlessly. "You were a little girl, River. A terrified, unloved little girl--"

"I should have known."

He smiles at her sadly. "How could you? How could you possibly?" He brushes his hand across her cheek and it terrifies and bewilders him, the ease with which she leans into his touch. She catches herself not a moment later, pulling away and putting a distance between them he never thought he'd grow to hate; to resent. His boundaries, his rules, crushing even further the broken heart of a woman he isn't supposed to love.

He hesitates; then steps forward with as much confidence as he can muster and gently - so, so gently - cups her face in his hands, fingers soft against her neck and jaw, thumbs just barely caressing her cheeks. She tenses, wide-eyed and confused, until he leans in and brushes a kiss against her forehead. She shudders - a small, involuntary motion that forces him to let go, only to wrap his arms around her as tight as he can and hold on for all he's worth.

\--

She tightens her fingers around the gun, and a shot echoes through the white.

"See?" Kovarian says, "That wasn't so bad. Now." Fingers around hers, adjusting her own grip on the gun. "Try again."

\--

It isn't as calculated as she would have preferred.

Her motions are deliberate and her aim is precise, but it lacks closure; it isn't defined or poignant like the others. His eyes widen with recognition, and she knows he knows - in those last seconds between her finger releasing the trigger and the blast impacting, their eyes meet.

It's slow, somehow; Time has always given her a strange sort of grace. He mouths her name, the bullet still in its trajectory. It's a crass form of death, she knows, but he'll still be recognisable - a 21st century piece of metal lodged between the creases of his brow.

No words, no last reminders. She doesn't get the opportunity to stand over him, powdered residue on her hands and clothes. Instead she shouts, and pushes the Doctor behind a large crate as the air crackles with plasma and electricity.

She doesn't get that final moment, but it'll do.

 

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see part one for notes

"You blew it up."

River starts. She hadn't heard the TARDIS land, hadn't heard the door open. He's standing in her living room, and from the arch of his shoulders and the flicker of his gaze she knows he's young; too young. She closes her book and sits up straighter. "Hello, sweetie."

He doesn’t smile. It was years ago for her, maybe weeks for him, and he doesn't understand yet - the blame and guilt assure her of that. "The lab we were in, the lab I helped you destroy - not long after we left it exploded, the entire complex, nothing left, no life.” He's too still, and she regards him carefully. "I hardly think that's a coincidence."

"No such thing," she agrees calmly. He narrows his gaze.

"There were over fifty people still trapped when the charges detonated. Charges _you_ set."

"Doctor--"

"Without telling me."

She sighs and stands, moving passed him into the kitchen. She needs something to do, something to focus on, an excuse to look anywhere but his face; she can't bear it. "Of course I didn't tell you," she says, a bit too hotly, "you'd have made me disarm them."

There's a pause, a shuffling of feet. She looks over at him briefly and he looks almost surprised - like he was waiting for her to lie. "You're not denying it."

She aims for casual. "Why would I? I set the alarm. Gave everyone as much time to vacate as possible."

"Well it wasn't enough," he snaps, dragging himself closer to her and then stopping with several feet to spare. She eyes the distance sadly, but her tone is smart and clipped:

"Are you angry because of what I did, or because of your participation?"

"Both," he returns. "You lied to me."

"I didn't lie."

He steps closer, crowding her. "You didn't tell me you were planning on blowing everything to smithereens."

"You didn't ask."

"I _trusted_ you."

"That was your first mistake," she drawls. He grabs her arm tightly when she moves away, pinning her between his body and the counter.

"Don't play me, River, I'm really not very agreeable when I've been played."

"Wouldn't dream of it, sweetie," she returns, but her honesty is clouded by a sneer. She doesn’t mean it, not really, but he’s so, so young, so distant; they haven’t been yet, to hell and back. But they will.

They’ll go everywhere.

She pulls away from him harshly. "It's my past. My business."

"This is not the way."

She whirls around to face him. "Just your way, then, Doctor? The path of righteousness." She scoffs, her understanding buckling beneath the weight of her anger. "As if you've never done a war."

"Not for _sport_ ," he snaps, and she reels back, putting distance between them for the first time he can recall; she's never moved away, not from him. Not by choice.

"Sport?" she repeats. Her voice is strong, but there are cracks in the timbers, so minuscule he wonders if he's imagining them. "You think that's what this is?"

"Over fifty people died, River! Innocent people--"

" _Innocent?_ "

Her eyes slam shut and she can hear the screams; hear soft cries and feel hot tears. Her arms sting and her hands shake and she could have handled a physical blow, could have handled an accusation, but not that; not from him. Her voice wavers, low and deliberate: "I'm going to stop you there, Doctor, because as brilliant as you are, at this point you have no idea what you're talking about. You don't have all the _facts._ "

"Then enlighten me."

She shakes her head and turns away. "Not when you're like this. Come find me when you've figured it out."

He pulls at her shoulder, turning her back. He stares, eyes boring into hers, his mind reaching out. She keeps everything sealed, everything protected, when all she wants is to let him in, to make him see.

"Who are you?" he asks, and the question burns.

Softly: "You know who I am."

"I know _what_ you are," he corrects, "And right now I'm having a difficult time reconciling that with what you've _done._ "

He's seeing people, she knows: lost lives and bones, breaches in the land and the sky and breaches in his knowledge - he thought he knew her, he thought he understood. The daughter of his best friends. She can see the disappointment etched in the lines around his eyes, and it hurts.

"I'm a weapon, Doctor," she says lowly, "Born and raised and carefully constructed to be the most deadly, the most feared. Designed specifically for one purpose and one purpose only - and I spend every day of my life fighting it."

He scoffs bitterly. "Why bother? If this is the path you're going to take--"

"You don't trust me," she interrupts, tearing herself away from him. "That's fine. But don't you dare assume to know everything I've been through."

The Doctor blinks and stares, and she crosses the room, pushing open the TARDIS door and standing beside it, a clear invitation for him to leave. "Don't you _dare._ "

\--

The Doctor doesn't find Melody Pond in the Gamma Forests. He doesn't find her on Earth. He doesn't find her in space, or outside of it.

It takes years and years of searching, of hoping, of trying, before Melody Pond finds the Doctor on a small beach in Utah, flanked by the Silence, trapped in a big, white suit.

River doesn't know. On the sand so far away, watching his every motion, she doesn't know what he knows, what she will know later. They’re out of synch, out of time, not linear like she believes; like he made her believe.

He lies to her, he always lies, and doesn't tell her he's been to Kovarian's office, or that he's seen her after, held her close and made her swear not to change anything, not one line. She doesn't know, and he hates himself for this, but there was no other way.

"It's okay," he says, "I know it's you."

Melody stares at him through the concave glass, and fires.

\--

She's in the library, fast asleep, tucked into the corner of the sofa, a heavy book open to a seemingly random page; nothing about her is random, and he smiles at her translations, her sketches and notations and research. She's always working, always thinking, constantly forcing herself to absorb new information and new knowledge; it's one of the things he likes best, though he knows he's understating.

He gently pries the book out from underneath her cheek, marking her page and setting it aside. Her eyelids flutter and she murmurs and he watches her for a moment, humbled.

It occurs to him then.

He frowns, the realisation turning over and over in his mind, each little detail and nuance of every conversation and every expression and every twitch of her lips as she smirked; every non-answer and spoiler and he doesn't understand, and makes a note to ask. He always asks. She always answers, somehow. It's one of the things he adores the most; her answers. But there's something missing, a hole, a tendency he's never noticed before, always passing over it like a shadow in the corner of his eye. Watching her now, her even breathing, the rise and fall of her chest, it dawns on him that when she sleeps with him she never really _sleeps._

She makes tea and they talk and she laughs, blankets piled around her hips and her chest bare and he traces images along her neck and shoulders, her ease and her smile distracting him from everything she keeps so carefully tucked away. He's seen her meditate, seen her curled up on the sofa in the library with a large book in an ancient language, eyes dancing across the pages like she's found some precious gold. He's seen her so tired she can barely stand, but she always slips away, and he always gets distracted by some new story or some gadget or some planet, and he never thinks anything of it, that when she finds him later in the night or day or in-between, that he's never simply sat, quiet and still, and watched her sleep.

It means something, he knows, something he'll have to contemplate, but for now he's content to brush her hair back from her face and memorise the details: the way her fingers curl as if around a shirt collar, her soft murmurs, the thin wrinkles around her eyes.

He smiles, leaning forward to flip off the light; the TARDIS glows gently, just bright enough for him to back quietly away.

He's nearly to the door when he hears her cry out.

\--

There are rumours, but Kovarian rejects them.

Melody Pond they might have worried about, but River Song is locked away, heavily watched, partially controlled. She's weak, infected, too much a part of the Vortex to ever have been malleable. She served her purpose, though she doesn't know it; she never will.

Colonel Manton tries to protest: "What if we're wrong? What if we trained her too well?"

Kovarian laughs, and the air winces and the marines stand straighter. "You have nothing to fear, Colonel Manton," she smirks, emphasising his weakness. "River Song is far too much like the Doctor; and Melody Pond will never remember what we've done. What she's done."

"And if she does?" the Colonel tries, one more time, but Kovarian only grins.

"Then let her come."

\--

She has no name.

She doesn't find it strange; no one here has names. They tell her stories and bring her food and teach her how to wield a knife, too big and weighted for her tiny hands. They teach her everything. Videos and sounds and images, bombarded day in and day out. Screams upon screams. A woman with red hair, red blood. She doesn't know the words for _please_ and _thank you_ and _I'm sorry_ \- they don't teach her. The only name she knows is accompanied by an engine whine and a scream.

 _Doctor._

In her language, it means only _Killer._

\--

The hospital is protected by lights and troops and Silence. Guards at all the doors, unnatural and grim. The cameras never see her, the soldiers never hear her. She doesn't exist except in one room, small and severe, tucked away and forgotten by forgetfulness itself.

(The Soldiers don't remember what they guard; they wouldn't guard it if they did.)

She closes the door softly behind her, pausing in the shadows. The man in the bed doesn't turn. He faces the window, muttering, his skin slick with sweat and his hands fisted (release, fist, release, fist, release) in the sheets.

She checks her watch; Time.

He doesn't react to her footsteps, or the motion of the bed as she sits lightly beside him. His hand is warm, just like she remembers.

He turns slowly, eyes blank, his lips echoing words long since spoken. He frowns, trying to place her, trying to remember. "Who are you?" he asks; his voice cracks along the vowels, and she reaches into her satchel for her canteen. He stares at her, wide-eyed and scared, and she smiles at him gently.

"It's all right," she soothes.

His lips part in soundless surprise, in brief recognition. "Melody?"

She tilts the bottle to his lips and helps him drink. He coughs, his throat dry and stiff, and she rubs his back carefully before lowering him back into the pillow.

"Yo--you shouldn't be-be here," he mutters; his fingers tighten around her own. "You sh-should run."

"I have," she murmurs. "I did."

He nods weakly. "Good."

She watches, unable to look away, as the contentment fades. She can see it in his eyes, in the lines on his face, each memory fading, each truth blurring more and more until his eyes are dull and empty.

"Who...?" he starts, but he trails off, turning to face the window. It's still raining; it's always raining, and her throat tightens. "So much," he mumbles. She strokes the back of his hand reassuringly. "So much…missing. Gone. It's still raining." He turns again, frowning at her. "1966. It's 1966."

She nods; an easy lie. "Yes, it is."

He sighs in relief.

Black and grey filter through the window. The shadows on his face are harsh and sordid, bleeding through his skin; his bones are soft and his hair is matted, brittle and thin.

She wants to apologise.

"Do you remember me?" she asks instead. His eyes flicker down to their hands as he frowns, then return to her face, searching; it doesn't last long. "You read me stories," she whispers, "Forbidden stories. Fairy tales. Princesses and dragons and knights in shining armour."

"Melody," he says. Recognition returns, and he grabs her hands and clasps them tightly. "You've grown," he whispers, awe and pride and fear. "Free?"

"Working on it," she answers.

He nods, but his grip slackens and he closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he's gone. In and out, like a flickering light in the dark.

"Sarah?" he begs desperately, hope so fleeting.

She shakes her head. "It's Melody."

"Melody." He smiles broadly, and reaches up to touch her cheek. His hand shakes, his skin rough and hot, and his eyes shine with tears. "I held you," he says brokenly.

"It wasn't your fault."

In and out. Back and forth.

"So many things…missing."

Her eyes brim with tears but she holds them back.

"Do you want it to be over?" she asks finally, raw and flat and shaking. She's supposed to be stronger than this.

He stares up at her in confusion. "Over?" he mumbles. "Over…so many days…" Suddenly he starts, pushing against her and looking around frantically. "Melody. Where's Melody?"

"I'm right here," she murmurs, "I'm right here."

He grabs her face between his palms, barely able to hold himself up. "Make sure she's safe," he says firmly. "Make sure…" He blinks and stares at her strangely. "Over," he says softly; she lowers him back into the bed gently. "Yes…over."

The rain hits the window like a grotesque symphony. He murmurs to himself, fingers curling and uncurling around the blankets. "Sarah…"

River swallows tightly and pulls a syringe from her bag. Her hands are steady and firm. The needle slides into his skin, and she watches as the orange liquid drains under her thumb.

"It's over," she murmurs, caressing his arm gently. "You can sleep now."

"Sleep," he echoes, eyes drifting closed. "Melody…" he murmurs. She squeezes his hand. "Melody was her own knight."

She doesn't cry, but she holds his hand until his grip goes slack and his eyes close. She stays, maybe a moment longer than she should; checks her watch. Time.

"Goodnight," she murmurs, rising and pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Sweet dreams."

\--

 _The suit nearly kills her._

 _The fear does the rest._

\--

She cries out, a sharp, broken moan, and he freezes. She's still asleep, her face twisted in pain. He hesitates, unsure and confused, watching as she moves fitfully, a light sheen of sweat on her brow and her hands curled into fists. She's projecting, images loud and harsh against his mind, and he has to concentrate to block them out, to keep them at bay. He moves back to her side quickly, touching her shoulder gently and shaking her.

"River," he murmurs, "River, wake up."

She shouts, and he presses harder.

"River!"

Her body contorts and flinches away under his touch. She's nearly screaming, the syllables harsh and terrified; he's never heard the language of the Forests sound so horrible, and he panics. He yells; the TARDIS brings up the lights; her arms come up and thrash out, defensive and brutal.

"River, it's me, it's me, it's the Doctor. River. River, can you hear me?" He speaks, stumbling over his own words, saying anything that comes to mind, saying her name over and over, trying to grasp her hands and shield himself from her blows. "River, please!"

"No!"

She bolts upright suddenly, knocking him to the floor. Her gun appears from nowhere, trained on him with expert precision. Her eyes are wide, her breathing heavy, and she stares at him for a long, hard moment. Then:

"Doctor?"

"I hope you have the safety on," he grumbles lightly, his eyes dark and concerned. He rubs the back of his head gingerly, but otherwise remains still and calm. "You can put that down, now," he says gently.

Her eyes flicker to the gun in her hands, then back to him. She swallows tightly, her body trembling as she tries to get her breathing under control. Slowly, warily, she lowers the gun to her side, her grip on the cool metal still tight, her finger still hovering over the trigger.

"Are you all right?" she asks finally. He takes that as a cue to stand, moving slowly and purposefully, each action one she can predict.

"Just a lump," he quips, hoping to spark a retort, a light mockery, or even a bit of concern. But she merely nods once, then turns suddenly, the gun disappearing into the folds of her clothes as quickly as it had appeared.

"River."

"Don't," she snaps. "I don't want your pity."

He shakes his head. "You don't have it."

She stills, her back to him; she's shaking fiercely, unable to control it, and it makes sense, suddenly, all those nights they stayed up laughing, all the exhaustion and excuses and little things that never added up. All the times he drifted off, then awoke to find her watching him, touching him, running her fingers through his hair, keeping a careful, quiet vigil. He's stupid, so, so stupid sometimes, and he hates it.

"You didn't want me to see this," he says softly. "That's why you never sleep when we're together."

She remains quiet, but whether it's because she won't speak or can't he isn't sure and he wishes suddenly against all hope that he were _better._ Better at this. Better for her. That he were enough to make this all disappear; that he could fix it with a wave of his hand and a journey in a box; that there were something - anything - in all of time and space that could mend her heart.

"River." He puts his hand on her shoulder, and she flinches, hard. He pulls back, murmuring an apology.

"No, I--" she starts, turning to him with wide, unguarded eyes. He's never seen her at a loss for words. Not once. Not ever.

"You don't have to protect me, you know," he murmurs, guilt spilling over. She pushed him to the ground, her body a shield; the bullet scraped her skin and tore her clothes and he couldn't even thank her for it. He tries to mask it, the guilt, but she knows, and she grips his hand firmly.

"Yes. Yes, I do."

So firm. So determined. He falls just a little bit more, just a little bit harder; this impossible woman.

"River..."

She turns again, packing her books into a satchel on the floor. "I need to go."

"River--"

He thinks of too many things at once, so many platitudes and condolences and things that will mean nothing to either of them; he won't insult her and everything she's been through by trying. She's waiting, he knows, for him to fill the silence; for him to be the man she expects every time, rather than the young facsimile. But the silence hangs and he can't find the words and she smiles in understanding, slipping past him toward the door and he can't, not again, not this time.

He follows after her at a run.

\--

 

She sees Kovarian only once before the end. From a distance she watches, hand braced on the trigger; it's far, but a simple shot. It would be so easy, here and now, but she isn't ready. The others weren't as difficult, more about righting past wrongs, hers and theirs. This is different. This is vengeance, a path she swore a long time ago to avoid. Kovarian is nothing without her army, without her God, without her success, and River knows she could untangle the life she's built for herself in mere moments, with mere whispers.

But she wants more.

It's a heady feeling, a sickness coiling in her throat, but she can't shake it. She's spent her life - her second life, her _real_ life - atoning for deeds she only vaguely remembered, and now she knows: every mark she used to think was an accident, every scar she attributed to her own carelessness, every memory she couldn't quite reach.

Every life she felt, but couldn't remember taking.

In the distance, Kovarian looks up, looks toward her, and River sinks back into the shadows. It isn't right. It isn't noble. She can hear the Doctor, _her_ Doctor, his voice a calming grace under her skin, and she knows he might never forgive her.

For the first time - the only time - she can't bring herself to care.

\--

"I paid a visit to the Gamma Forests a few days ago," he says, hands tangling together in his lap. "Then stopped off in the Vortex for a bit, needed to clear my head. It's always so full of stuff. I don't always think properly." He knocks on his skull with his knuckles.

"Where in the Forest?" she asks, though she suspects she knows the answer.

"The Bone Meadows."

River inhales sharply and he tries to smile, to reassure her; he owes her that much. "The only place on the entire land that's barren. Nothing grows there, hasn't done for centuries." He shifts in his chair, pulling at his braces and his bow-tie. It's dark outside, night seeping in through the windows of her apartment. The TARDIS looms in its usual place in the corner, though he doesn't know yet that it's a habit. He's only been here once, too far out of his time stream, breaking rules and barriers he made her swear to respect.

The pause drags, and she swallows tightly. "I know what it is."

He sighs heavily, his shoulders dropping, and he looks at her with so much remorse she forgets to breathe. "I didn't," he admits softly, and she knows what it cost him. "The people of the Gamma Forests… they have a legend that dates back hundreds of years," he starts, eyes steady on her face. "They say, that before it was empty, the land held a huge, metal box, the only thing on the entire planet constructed from unnatural materials. A large metal box, miles and miles wide, miles and miles long, miles and miles deep, infesting the Earth and killing everything around it."

He runs a hand through his hair awkwardly and gives a light shrug. "No one knows where it came from, or why, but they say that the box held War itself - the very essence of violence and hate. It just appeared, killing the trees and the waters and even, some say, injuring the third sun of Maila. It was there for decades, spreading out, torturing the land. They say that anyone who tried to defeat the box, tried to fight it, was instantly killed or worse, absorbed into the metal and made into a soldier of War."

He pauses, waiting for her to interject, but she doesn't. She's heard the story many times, but he's never told it, so she listens, focusing on the fluttering motion of his hands and the way his voice cracks and repairs, cracks and repairs.

"War grew within it," he continues, his tone thick with regret, "stronger and stronger every day, more and more fearful. The people of the Forests fled the surrounding areas, seeking shelter in other villages and even leaving their planet. War grew, and took more land, more soldiers. More people."

River hesitates, wanting to touch him but fearing the spell will break, the moment will vaporise. His eyes flicker to her hands, catching their aborted movement, and he offers a brief, broken smile.

"But War wanted out. The box wasn't enough. So finally it took a child, a child of the Forests, and it forced itself into her, to give itself sight and touch and motion. To give itself freedom. War forced itself into the body of a little girl, and it was free." The Doctor holds her gaze knowingly, and part of her wants to disappear from it, within it. To bury herself in the understanding she so rarely sees anymore.

"But the child was clever; she knew War couldn't speak yet, couldn't understand, so she sang to the trees and the rivers and the suns, and she begged them to destroy the box and everything within it. The trees were hesitant, but in the end they agreed. They turned hot, boiling their leaves and surrounding the box with fire. The water from the rivers crashed open the doors, and the fire spread, melting the metal into the earth, destroying War from the inside out, one flame at a time.

"Nothing's grown there ever since," he says, leaning back into his seat. "Fifty people died, their bones still littering the grounds in the canyon - those that gave themselves to the box or were corrupted by it. But there was only one casualty, according to the Gammas: a little girl. Her body never recovered. They say she fought War itself and won, but it cost her her life. The people of the Forests keep the Bone Meadows as a reminder." River stares, and the Doctor stares, and his voice falls so quiet she barely catches the words; more that she feels them, their weight, their whispers in his mind. "The sanctity of a child."

"Doctor…" Her voice crumbles, and he bows his head.

"I owe you an apology. I never stopped to consider…I'm sorry."

His hand covers hers, and she stares down at their fingers, so old and so young, intertwined. He pulls back after a moment and clears his throat. "You don't have to tell me…" he offers quietly, "but if you want to, I'm ready to listen."

She tries to speak, but for a long moment the words won't come. She starts and stops in her head; she knew she'd have to tell him at some point, but she never imagined how. Never imagined it would be like this - so quiet, so still. The Doctor sits and waits and doesn't say anything at all, until her voice fills the silence: a bit too sharp and a bit too brave and entirely too human.

"It was a laboratory," she says, though it's not what she intended. "Kovarian's laboratory. I spent one of my regenerations there. It was only about twelve years, I think." She shrugs lightly. "I was still young."

"What were they doing?" he asks, gentle and smooth.

"It was a research lab. Part of Kovarian's plan to defeat you, to find weaknesses she could exploit. They were studying Time Lord DNA, trying to find a way to…" She searches, and finally lands on: "replicate it. Advance it." She rises suddenly, moving to the window to watch the clouds blend into the night. She can't look at him, so young and unsure. She wraps her arms around herself in a worthless embrace, but carries on. "As far as I understand it, they wanted to breed an army. They could weed out the humanity bit by bit until they had the perfect weapon, one who wouldn't--"

She stops.

"Wouldn't what?" he prods gently, and River inhales deeply.

"Rebel against her 'programming'." The Doctor nods, reading what she isn't saying, what's written across her face and in her stance and in the sharp lines of her arms. "And if you think, for one moment that I would allow them to do to another child what they did to me…"

So softly: "What did they do?"

She doesn't answer. He waits, but she's gone, mind somewhere far away, heart in her throat. He doesn't know if it's right or even fair, but he stands and moves behind her, close enough to touch but he doesn't. "River," he murmurs; his hand hesitates near her shoulder, then falls to his side. "The man you… killed," he begins, careful not to startle or offend her. "It wasn't because he shot at me, was it?" She turns, surprised, and he admits, "I saw his face before he died. He knew you." River freezes for a moment, then nods, an unspoken permission for him to ask. "Who was he?"

"His name was Dr. Frachlen. He was a scientist, a brilliant one at that. He was in charge of Kovarian's research projects." The pause hangs, then drops suddenly at the flat tone in her voice: "He was also my medical doctor."

The Doctor's eyes widen. "You were a test subject."

She shrugs. "I was a resource."

"Deciphering our DNA, understanding it well enough to literally create your own Time Lord… that would take decades, if not centuries," he says, and she smirks wryly at his buried question.

"Why bother when they already had me?" He nods, and she turns back to the window, as if speaking to her own reflection. "I was damaged. I had dreams - of my mother's voice, a man in Roman dress. They made me human, and no matter how hard she tried, Kovarian couldn't extract those dreams."

The Doctor winces at her phrasing, but River doesn't notice.

"He almost figured it out, Frachlen - how to 'test-tube' a Time Lord." The disgust curls around her words like angry vines, strangling the vowels. "I was gone by then, regenerated, but after the Silence fell I started to remember. Which…I guess this is how you knew, then. Before me."

He ignores the spoiler as best he can. "You went back to stop them."

"And to make them pay." She gives him a sad, empty smile. "My motives weren't all virtuous."

"Are anyone's?" he asks softly. "You still haven't answered my question."

"What question?"

"Your hands."

River frowns, arching an eyebrow at him as he moves to stand in front of her, his back to the glass. "I didn't notice it before, I should have, but I didn't." He unfolds her arms gently, holding them out in front of her, palms up, his hands under her wrists. "There's a low-level perception filter around your arms and hands. It makes the skin look whole."

"Liars," River sighs, but she isn't angry, just resigned. "They told me it was Time Lord-proof."

The Doctor smiles - " _Nothing_ is Time Lord-proof." - and River rolls her eyes fondly.

"Don't I know it."

She moves to lower her arms but he stops her, cradling her hands in his. "May I see?" he asks softly.

Her eyes widen with insecurity and fear, and she stammers, "It doesn't matter."

"It does to me," he insists, gentle and firm. He waits, watching the emotions play across her face, her indecision, her hesitance. He hates it, even now, that anything could make her stumble. He waits as she composes herself, looking for a sign. Eventually she nods, almost imperceptibly, and he digs into his jacket quickly, scanning her briefly with his screwdriver before returning it to his pocket.

She holds her arms out and the perception filter disappears; scars appear like ink drops on wet paper, seeping into focus. Her arms and wrists are covered with marks - leftover patterns of needles and wires and restraints.

"They should have disappeared when I regenerated," River says casually, "but they never did. One of our many differences I suppose."

He meets her eyes briefly. "Do they hurt?"

"Not physically," she shrugs. "Not anymore."

He holds her arms gently under her elbows, still studying the lines. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You know why."

"I do," he murmurs. He looks up, holding her gaze. "And you need to stop."

River blinks and the Doctor shakes his head, fingers tracing whisper-light against her arm. "These scars." She flinches and tries to pull back, but he holds her elbow, gentle but firm, and tugs her even closer. "They're a part of who you are, and whether you believe it or not, they make you so…"

He trails off, eyes suddenly bright and wet.

"So what?"

He smiles brilliantly. " _Beautiful._ "

She opens her mouth to protest, but he quiets her with a finger against her lips. "Everyone has scars, River," he says softly. "Everyone has things they've done they wish they hadn't, or had things done to them they'd like to run away from. And so many become a…a product of their pain. They succumb to it in the worst possible way." He shakes his head, hair falling in his face. "But you…River, _you_...turned all that hate and all that- that… _fear_ into something so, so…" He grins, the word falling from his lips like a prayer. "… _good._ Your entire life was wrong and you made it about doing something right. Every day." He reaches out, brushing his fingers down her cheek, her skin warm and soft beneath his touch. "How could you _ever_ think I would hate you for that?"

She laughs quietly and bows her head. "Am I that easy to read?"

"Never," he whispers fondly, brushing an errant tear from her cheek. "It's one of the many things about you that I--" His throat catches. "That I can't resist."

"I'd hate it if you could," she admits, one hand reaching up to smooth the collar of his jacket absently.

"I know," he replies, wrapping his arms around her loosely, a strange sort of contentment rolling through him as she returns the gesture, her face buried in the crook of his neck. "I know."

\--

 _The Silence fall, and she remembers, and the rest aligns like stars._

 _She takes care of them, one by one. Everyone who played a hand. There's some mercy in it, she knows - the smart ones have been awaiting this day, and she tries to make them all quick, no more than a minute. She ties up her ends, even though she knows it might not matter - Time will be rewritten._

 _But it's closure, for the first time in her life. Who she is, what she was, her whole life stretched out behind her, clear and still as water, and it gives her comfort._

 _She doesn't ask for the memories. Doesn't ask for her fate. But the Silence fall and they return and when it's done there's only one option, one choice:_

 _Take it back._

 

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- i figured i should finally post the last chapter of this. whoops.

It takes months, but he finally finds her among the ruins Anima Persis. It should have been obvious, now that he's there, now that he sees it - barren and sterile, a planet destroyed by war, inhabited only by ghosts - the last warrior, digging herself a grave. She's out of place, here. Her skin is too bright and her hair too still; there's no wind, no rain, no warmth. Another might have deserved it, but he knows better; she doesn't. 

"River," he says gently, keeping a careful distance. 

She doesn't turn. "Go away."

He smiles faintly and shakes his head. "I can't do that."

She huffs, annoyed, and fixes him with a wounded stare. "Don't you have somewhere to be? Planets to save, damsels to rescue." It's said with scorn, but beneath it there's a glimmer of truth, of respect and awe and he shrugs and offers her a cheeky grin. 

"Who says I'm not doing so right now?"

She glowers - _distress_ has never applied to her - and kicks absently at a bone by her feet. The ghosts shake and swirl, but she pays them no notice. "What do you want?" He raises both eyebrows in question, and she gives him a look. "You didn't track me across the universe to gloat; it's not your style." 

The Doctor _hmms_ in agreement and takes a few steps closer. She eyes him warily, but doesn't move. "Gloating is for those who have something to be proud of," he remarks, shaking his head. 

"You won the War." 

"There was no war, River," he murmurs. "Only what Kovarian made up." 

She flinches at the name, fingers itching for a trigger. "Quite a story, then, isn't it?" she says bitterly. She's young, so young, so lost; a shell of the woman he used to know; the woman she’ll become. The lines on her face are harder, her jaw set tighter, and he almost thinks it would be easier, if she were wearing a different face, one he doesn’t know so well, one he hasn’t touched and kissed so many times. She doesn't trust him, doesn't love him, barely even knows him, and yet, here she is: a broken planet for a broken soul, trying to find her penance in the dusts of the dead. 

"It's the best story there is," he answers, and she looks up at him in disgusted surprise. He backtracks quickly, waving his arms in front of his face hastily. "Not that part," he corrects. "Not the kidnapping part or the weapon part or the fighting part. Those are all rubbish, all horrible, horrible things that never…" he sighs heavily, "never should have happened, not to you. Not to anyone." 

"Then what?" 

"Us," he says simply. "You and me." 

"I'm not leaving," she says flatly. "I'm not going back." 

"I don't want you to go back."

She snorts. "I'm not going with _you_ , either." 

It stings, but he hides it with a shrug. "Okay," he agrees, fishing into his pockets. He pulls out a key - the TARDIS key, she recognises - and with a flourish throws it as far as he can. She watches as it arches, spinning, and falls over the side of the cliff face.

"What did you do that for?" 

He grins - this early on, he still has the ability to surprise her - and sits down on a long, flat headstone. "I'm not going anywhere, either." 

She opens and closes her mouth several times, looking back and forth between him and the ravine. "I've been trying to kill you for years," she reminds him, and he almost laughs. 

"You've been trying to _not_ kill me for years," he returns, "There's a difference." He eyes her knowingly. "It wouldn't have been difficult for you, if you'd really wanted."

She turns away, then, staring out across the graveyard, watching the ghosts weave in and out of the surface. 

"I know you don't trust me," he says softly. "Not yet, at least. But you can someday. If you want."

She scoffs, "Where's the fun in that?" and doesn't notice when he winces; the faith he'll come to cherish hasn't been born yet. Doesn't exist. But then she turns, hesitant and curious and demanding: "Why?"

"Because I made a promise," he says, getting awkwardly to his feet and dusting off his trousers as he approaches her. "A long, long time ago, to a woman I barely knew. I made a promise that I would watch us run, as far and fast and long as we could." His voice drops and he resists the urge to take her hands, to touch her face. "Because I trust you, River Song, even if you don't trust yourself." 

She pauses, so still and so unsure. He's offering her a chance, a first chance, a _right_ chance, and her bones ache at the risk of it all; what could happen to her if she does, how she might actually change. 

“There are things--” She stops abruptly, and the Doctor holds his breath. “There are things I can’t remember. Things I know I’ve done, but I can’t--” 

Flashes of white, sandy beaches. A creature standing above her, haloed by the sun. Writing on the walls. 

“River?” he touches her arm gently, and she blinks, startled, and jerks away. 

“It’ll make sense someday,” he promises. 

“How do you know?” 

He grins. “Spoilers.” 

She nearly growls, an angry whine in the back of her throat. “If you’re keeping something from me…” she warns, but he just shakes his head. 

“It can’t be told, River. It has to be lived. And oh, do we live it. You and me.”

River frowns, her mind playing out all the angles, all the history and all the words and everything she knows about this man, and none of it, none of the stories or the fairy tales or the lessons are enough to convince her that he's lying; that this is some cruel joke at her expense. She doesn't trust him, not entirely, but he's still there, still waiting.

"Why?" she asks again, softer this time. "Why me? Why do you care?" 

"I always care," he answers generally. Then: "We travel back to front. Your future is my past." 

"So, what?" she demands. "I'm bound by some time-space law to go with you?" 

"No," he murmurs, "No, not at all. Time can be rewritten, almost always. I only know what _has_ happened, not what _will_ happen. Time doesn't control free will."

She blinks. "That doesn't make _any_ sense." 

He grins. "Isn’t it wonderful?"

There's a flicker, an almost-smile, a touch of light to her eyes that he knows so well, remembers so fondly, loves so much. "You and me, River. Time and space." He holds out his hand. "What'd you say?"

She hesitates, stalling for time. "You threw the key over the cliff," she reminds him, but receives only a grin in response.

"Don't need it."

She stares at his outstretched hand. Words reverberate in her mind, cautions and threats and whispers, horrid tales of death and misery; the engine whine of the blue box, looming behind him. It terrifies her, that box; what she might find inside. 

Slowly, so, so, slowly, she raises her hand. It lingers in the air between them, her mind and hearts duelling, her future staring at her from all directions. She shouldn't, she knows - it's too dangerous for them both, too volatile. But when she finally meets his gaze, he's looking at her with something in his eyes no one has ever held for her before: 

_hope._

She takes his hand. 

"You're a lunatic," she says as he drags her toward the TARDIS. He stops in front of the doors, grinning widely, and snaps his fingers. The door swings open, and River stares, and the Doctor beams. 

"River Song," he says, "You have _no_ idea."

\--

The air crackles with electricity and static, and then: nothing. 

Kovarian looks around, staring out at the surface of a planet made entirely of sound. Vibrations hold the core, and the ground pulses with a throbbing bass, the air is high pitched and brutal, the floor a ringing tenor. Her temples pound, her skin crawls with notes. It's completely empty, save the sounds weaving in and out, in and out, unending bars. 

She always knew it would end eventually. Knew her death would return to her in kind. But this, this place, this punishment--

The planet thrums around her, a steady, dizzying drone, treble and bass staggering their echoes. 

She's done. Gone. She had no words, no fire, no passion - the weapon she raised, the girl she destroyed, picked her up and dropped her off without even a whisper, and now there's only this: the fizzing out of lightning, the fading imprint of a silhouette.

After a moment, not even the air remembers she was there.

And Kovarian is alone.

\--

"I always thought it was strange," she says, too exhausted and too empty to care that she shouldn't be talking, shouldn't even be thinking like this around him. "A sad, lonely man with too much power and not enough Grace. A man who destroyed worlds and ended lives and purged the Universe in all parts of space and time. A bitter, bitter man corrupted by his own immortality." She smiles at him, but there's no joy, only pain, and he barely stops the hand that reaches for her desperately. "It never made any sense," she murmurs, and he swallows tightly.

"What didn't?"

"That anyone that alone, for that long, would want anything other than a friend."

"River..."

"You lied to me."

He nods solemnly. "Yes."

"You knew. You knew before I did, before I remembered. Everything I became. All that time you--" 

She closes her eyes, tears clinging to her lashes. He stares, and waits for them to fall. 

"How?" she asks, her voice cracked in two. She looks at him with so much sadness, so much pain, years and years - the Silence. The metal box. The astronaut in the lake. Everything suddenly weighted, all returned. She stares at him like someone so, so broken, and he doesn't understand how through all that grief and all that noise, she only asks one question, steeped in desperation and guilt:

"How could you ever love me?"

Her tears fall and his shoulders fall and he kisses her because for the first time, he doesn't know what else to do.

\--

"It's okay," he says, "I know who you are."

She raises her weapon. Two shots echo across the water, and he stumbles backwards. 

Amy screams in the distance.

The astronaut stares.

The Doctor waits for pain, but it never comes. He sees Amy tear out of Rory's arms at the same time the child falters; the gun lands with a muted slap at his feet. 

"No," he breathes. Melody falls, and he lurches forward, easing her gently to the ground. "Melody. Melody, can you hear me?" 

Amy drops to his side, grabbing his arm frantically, trying to pull him away, crying out and demanding answers and all he can see is the pale face behind the glass. He looks up suddenly, eyes scanning the beach frantically. "Where did it come from?" He digs in his pocket for his screwdriver and stands, scanning the area in a flurry of motion. "Where did it--" He turns around. Amy is next to him and Rory is crouched over the astronaut, trying to pry her from the suit. River stands by his side, gun in her hand, eyes sharp and stance tight -- ahead of him, already ascertaining dangers and locations and, he knows, ready to put herself between him and uncertainty. He grabs her shoulders suddenly, and she blinks in surprise. 

"What have you done?" he demands. 

She opens her mouth to protest but he's already moved away, pacing, muttering, "No, not yet, not you, but how--" He whirls, squinting off into the distance; he can see the boat, Canton's car, the picnic blanket. 

"Doctor?" 

River's voice breaks his concentration, but he can't look at her. She'll know. 

She always knows. 

"River, go back to the TARDIS," he says sharply. "Bring her here."

"Doctor, what is happening?" Amy demands, standing now between him and River, looking between them and the astronaut. 

"Rory, do not let her die," he says fiercely, barely finished before River protests, 

"She tried to kill you!" 

Too close, in her face, anger and fear and too much knowledge: "She's a little girl!" 

River looks from him to the child, but there's no recognition in her eyes. It's as strange to her as it is to the rest of them, but she's smarter, older, and she turns back to him, voice flat and brittle. "You knew," she accuses, and Amy's head snaps toward her. 

"You knew she was coming here, that this would happen. That she would try to kill you." 

"Doctor?" Amy, almost childlike: "Is that true?" 

He waves his hand in the air between them, frustrated. "We don't have time for this. River, the TARDIS--"

"Tell me you didn't know." She's so still, so tight, every chord of muscle taught and drawn and it was necessary, he knows, but the grief on her face is almost unbearable, and he looks away. River scoffs, slamming her gun back into its holster and handing Rory her hand-held device. "I'll get the TARDIS," she says flatly, and without another word takes off up the beach. He watches her for only a moment, then turns and drops to his knees next to the girl. 

"Rory?" 

He nods, confused but dutiful, indicating to the small computer. "She's alive, but barely. We need to get her out of this suit so I can examine her." The Doctor sighs, and Amy grabs his arm tightly. 

"Doctor, what is going on?" 

"Time," he says absently, "Time is being rewritten, meddled with." 

He says it so gravely that she starts, pulling away. "Isn't that a good thing? River's right, she was going to kill you!" 

"It's not that simple," he murmurs, eyes fixed on Melody's pale face. 

"Doctor," Amy starts, but he's saved from any questions by the soft whir of the TARDIS. River opens the door and the Doctor gestures to Rory, both of them lifting the astronaut awkwardly and carrying her inside. River moves to help, but the Doctor snaps, "Don't!" She raises her eyebrows at him in question, her hands hovering just over the girl's arm, and he shakes his head. "Trust me, River, please. _Don't_." 

She nods, slowly backing away. Amy watches from the sidelines as they gently place the child on the floor. Together, Rory and the Doctor remove her helmet, and Rory gasps quietly. "She's so young," he breathes. 

_Hardly,_ the Doctor thinks, but instead says: "Out." 

Rory looks up. "What?"

"All of you," he says, concentrating on the suit, "Out. Out of the TARDIS, right now."

"Doctor--" 

"Especially you, River," he snaps. It's wrong, he knows, to accuse her of something she hasn't done yet; something he assumes she's done. But she's here now, came just like she always does - did - will - and everything is jumbled and messy and he glares up at her harshly. "Seriously, all of you, out now. Go back to the restaurant." 

"Doctor, you can't just leave us here," Amy says. Rory moves to help the Doctor, but he slaps his hands away and stands quickly, awkwardly, all hasty limbs and agitation. 

River: "Let us help." 

"You've done enough!" he yells. Amy steps back slightly, but River barely moves, doesn't flinch. 

"I'm not leaving." 

His eyes narrow dangerously. "River," he warns, but she barely reacts. It's a standoff, one he knows he could never win, and he sighs heavily. 

"Amy, Rory, give us a minute."

"But the girl--" 

"She'll be fine, Rory, I'll take care of her. Go." Neither of them move, and he lowers his voice. "Seriously. Go." 

Amy watches him, confounded, as Rory leads her gently out the door, closing it behind him. He can hear their muffled arguing from outside, just underneath River's sharp, "Do you have any idea how much you just hurt her?" 

He nods, deflated, and crosses the distance between them in a few strides. He doesn't touch her, too afraid, his hands fluttering nervously around her instead. 

"Doctor," she says lowly, gently. "What is going on?" 

"I can't tell you." 

"Our timelines--" 

"I lied." He bows his head. "I'm sorry, River. I lied. I'm older, much older. We're not linear." 

She swallows tightly. "Why would you do that?" 

"I had to. If there were another way, I would have…" His eyes stray to the girl, to Melody, to the paradox before him. 

"Doctor."

He grabs her hands and presses his forehead to hers. "Please, River. Please trust me. I need you. I'm meeting you in the restaurant in about an hour, a younger me. There's somewhere we have to go and I…I need you there, more than here."

"Space, 1969." 

"Yes." 

Her gaze flickers to the astronaut. "You said time had been rewritten." 

He nods slowly, his thumbs running gently over her palms. "This wasn't supposed to happen." 

She looks back at him with bright, unguarded eyes. "I'm glad it did." He inhales sharply, but she doesn't notice. She kisses his cheek and pulls away. "I'll take care of them," she promises, one hand on the door. 

He stands, frozen in place. "I know you will." 

The door closes behind her softly, and he stares after her for a moment too long. Then all at once his anger returns, his confusion, his terror, and he scrambles up to the controls, slamming buttons and pulling levers harsher than necessary. 

"Find her," he demands of the Box. "Find her _now_." 

\--

They are methodical. Perfect in their implementation. A single strike planned over 100 years into the future. Every step. Every breath. Twists and turns and rewinds to confuse and delay. They are tireless. They are precise.

They make no mistakes.

 

When they fall, it will be through no fault of their own, save one -

They tried.

\--

Even when she’s young she has nightmares. 

Grey faces, white walls, the smell of leather. The hum of the TARDIS is like a trigger, and it takes her months to get used to it; months before she can touch the walls, before she ventures into rooms on her own. 

It’s an arch sometimes, their timeline, the end echoing the beginning and the beginning repeating the end. The first time she told him about the dreams was the last time he ever held her though the night. There are days in the middle where he doesn’t know, isn’t sure where they stand, but back at the beginning he can’t stay away, can’t even try. It’s a long time before she lets him in; before she tells him about the things she can’t remember, the words she can’t forget.

So many nights she doesn’t sleep, wandering the halls. He knows that someday she’ll grow to love the TARDIS, that she’ll talk to her and touch her and treat her sometimes better than he does. 

“She’s a part of you,” the Doctor tells her one night, coaxing her to place a hand on the console. She does so tentatively, warily, and the TARIDS quiets, almost as if holding her breath. “We spoke once, the old girl and I. She told us about you. _The only water in the forest._ ” He smiles at the memory. “I’ve travelled with a lot of people over the centuries, but there’s only one I’ve ever taught to fly my TARDIS.” 

“Who?” 

He crooks a finger across her cheek briefly and smiles. “You.”

\--

She takes five lives before the end. 

Two out of necessity - the scientist and the colonel; the mastermind and the keeper. Two because they’re strong, because they’re smart, because even if it all unravels, they’ll _remember_ , and maybe Time will change; because she can’t leave the threads so frayed. 

The third she takes out of mercy. He’s too old, too tired, too far gone to remember his name or his life or his purpose. They held him captive, a small, timid man with a bowtie and warm hands and writing on his arms: _Get out. Go now._ But he never did. He never left, even when he remembered; he read her fairy tales and kissed her forehead and tucked her in at night and told her not to fear the Silence or the thunder or the darkness. So she held his hand and watched him go and regrets only that it took her so long to free him; to understand. 

The fourth life she takes because she can. Because she has no words. Because even if time rewrites it all, she’ll still be there, still haunting – the woman with the silver eye; her nightmares in a single glance.

She swore to him, so many memories ago, that she’d never kill for this, never take because she could or because she wanted to or because it seemed _appropriate_. 

“We aren’t judges,” he told her once, back when her skin was still fair and her hands still unsteady. “We don’t get to bring life, or end it.” 

She remembers the words, the sorrow in his eyes, even as she leaves in a whif of smoke, the treble pulsing in her bones long after the static has faded. 

Contradictory lessons, fables and stories, rush behind her eyelids, accounts of God and men, clerics and thieves. The last life she takes isn’t planned or voluntary; like a dusty photograph, she remembers the motions, the scene, but the expressions are blurred out by time and guilt, his apology tearing at her hearts. 

She takes five lives, passes five judgements, so that after the end, she can give just one back. 

\--

 

He can tell by the style that something's wrong. No museums. No decorated cliffs. No urgent phone calls or flying stunts. Just a psychic paper, no address: _come when you can_ and a date.

She's curled up on the sofa, a forgotten cup of tea on the table. No books. No disguises. Her face is clear of makeup; clear of the brightness and sound and spark.

He gropes for something to say, some wit or ramble that will make her smile. All he manages is her name.

She tries. She tries so hard, so bravely, to keep up appearances. He can tell she wants to tease him, wants to spare him whatever pain she's come across. But she can't, not this time, and he crouches in front her without hesitation. "River," he says. A question. A plea. He takes her hands and she grips his fingers tightly. 

If there's one thing he can do, one thing he's good at, he can catch her when she falls.

"Where are we?" she asks. 

He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter--"

"Where are we?" 

He sighs. "We've just done the waterfalls on Pylea IV." 

Her face crumples, and she looks away. "We're too early," she whispers. "I can't--" 

"I'm sorry." 

"It's not your fault. The TARDIS…" She inhales shakily. "She brought this you for a reason."

He nods, but doesn't quite believe it. She needs him, another him, an older him, someone who knows and understands. "I could go and come back," he offers gently, but she shakes her head frantically and grabs his hand and he moves quickly, sliding up onto the couch and pulling her into his shoulder. 

"Talk to me," he begs, running a hand up and down her arm.

"Spoilers," she murmurs; the sound reverberates under his skin, and he tightens his grip on her hand. 

"You're clever, River," he urges, "Talk to me." 

Her hearts beat in tandem to his own. Her hair smells like coconut and wildflowers and dust and there's a ring on her left hand that's digging into his own. She says nothing for a long, long time, regulating her breathing to the rise and fall of his chest, focusing on the softness of his skin and the clasp on his braces digging into her collarbone. 

_I remember,_ she wants to tell him. _I remember everything. And I’m sorry._

"It's just difficult sometimes," she says instead. "All of Time at our fingertips….and nothing we can change." 

"Time isn't meant to be controlled," he murmurs, though he knows the feeling, the ache. She doesn't say anything else. "We can go to Zakis," he offers suddenly. "Or New New York." River looks up at him, craning her neck to meet his gaze. "Brachton has a lovely harvest festival this time of year - well, any time of year, really," he amends, gesturing to the TARDIS.

River hesitates.

She never hesitates.

"We can stay here, too," he offers. "I can stay."

She lowers her head back against his chest, fingers of her free hand curling over his shoulder, one leg over his. "Thank you," she whispers. He kisses the top of her head. 

"Always."

\--

She's half in the shadows, staring out the wide window and watching the black around them as it swirls and curves. He knows she can see it; can feel it the way he does, or at least close. He can tell by her posture, the curve of her neck and the arc of her spine that she hears the whispers and echoes the Universe leaves behind as it shifts, too fast and too slow to be seen with the human eye. The blackness dances and sings and the Doctor watches her watch its performance in the silence. Framed against the light from the TARDIS, the light of space, she's beautiful; she looks softer, somehow; less cold. But her voice - when it shatters the air around them, drawing him back into the room, into the moment, into one time in one place; her voice, like fire in a crowded room, breaks his hearts.

"Madame Kovarian is dead."

Flat. Emotionless. She says it without remorse and without pride and dares him silently to rebuke her, to torment her with the morality she chose - just this once - to lack.

The Doctor nods. He doesn't agree, but he can't find it in himself to blame her, not this time, not after everything. Instead he turns, following her gaze out into the sky. The stars seem dimmer, the blackness paler, like the joy has faded from its reverie; like it knows.

He can tell she's waiting. Waiting for the fall-out, for the punishment. She's waiting for him to cut her down as he so easily could, with a word or a gesture or a look. He could end her, he knows; not the woman - the brilliant, fierce, tormented woman before him, her he could never touch, but River, _his_ River - all he'd have to do is throw it away. (Sometimes he thinks he should. Maybe it would be better that way, for the both of them.)

But all she's ever asked of him - through all of time and all of space and every scar - all she's ever asked is that he let her stay.

"No questions?" she asks finally, terse and defensive. She waits. He catches her glance.

"Will you sleep now?"

Barely a whisper. Soft and gentle like a breeze.

Under its spell, she silently breaks.

\--

He's barely out of the TARDIS before he starts, rage and fire in every gesture, every word, a storm of guilt and fear and she weathers it as she always has, static in the centre, inhaling the dust until her lungs are full and she can barely speak. It’s been hours for her, probably minutes for him. She went somewhere she knew he’d find her – their apartment, small and barely lived in, but a fixed point for them; a sanctuary.

His words and his anger feel like anything but, and she tightens her grip on the sink, her ring loose on her finger and tinkering against the porcelain.

“Where?” he demands. “Where did you come from? Where did you go?” 

River inhales deeply and turns to face him, leaning back against the sink. Her legs are still shaky, her blood cold. Time is holding its breath, waiting for her answer; the Doctor is waiting. 

“Los Angeles. 3034.” 

The Doctor blanches slightly. “That’s right in the middle of Reconstruction.”

“I’ll be fine.” 

His eyes narrow. “Kovarian--” he starts, but she shakes her head. 

“Whatever happens, happens. Just…” She exhales sharply. “Just get me there before I regenerate, or we’ll all be in a world of trouble.” 

He points a finger at her accusingly. “I’m coming right back,” he snaps, already backing into the TARDIS. “Don’t you dare leave.” 

The door snaps closed, and the box disappears, and River exhales sharply. Memories are refolding themselves, some fading, some growing brighter; two sets of lives with points intersecting, purple and gold and hot. She needs time, time to think, time to adjust, time to reconsile it all in her head; but she barely has time to gather herself before he returns. 

"What the hell were you thinking?" he demands, nearly a shout, and River braces herself with nonchalance. 

"You're welcome," she drawls, but she doesn't turn, can't. She keeps her eyes focused on the sink in front of her, head down, avoiding her reflection. The Doctor doesn't notice, deep into a tirade that she only catches pieces of; her mind is still echoing, still seething, time altering itself in her memories and skin. 

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" he snaps, pacing the floor behind her. "She could have died! _You_ could have--"

Sharply: "I'm well aware of the ramifications, Doctor."

"I don't think you are! You created a paradox! A tear in space-time. Do you have any idea how dangerous--"

She whirls on him fiercely, her promise to be calm giving way to a flurry of emotions - fear, guilt, anger, regret - but above all, _relief_ , a barely constrained joy that he's _here_ , over a thousand years old, still here and safe and the words bubble over without her consent: "I didn't have a choice!" 

He whirls, gesticulating sharply. “You think Kovarian’s just going to let this go? Do you have _any_ idea how much danger you’re in? If they find out you failed--”

“Let them come.” 

“River,” he warns, a deadly edge to his voice but she doesn’t care.

"I'm a weapon, Doctor," she reminds him sharply. "I'm the most powerful weapon the universe has ever known, and that includes you. And it includes Kovarian. I can't change how I was bred, but _by god_ I can change what I choose to destroy."

“You just rewrote history. Your history -- _my_ history!” the Doctor shouts, stalking away and then stopping, his fists tight against his sides. “I taught you better,” he murmurs, harsh and guttural. “I told you never, ever to interfere with my time line and you promised – you _promised_ me and I trusted you, River, I _trusted_ you and I have never once regretted that until--” 

"You _knew,_ " she interrupts, partly to stop him and partly to save herself; she can’t hear those words from him, that tone, that disappointment. 

The Doctor freezes as River moves closer, anger bubbling up the more she concentrates, the more she remembers. She intends the words to be strong and full of indignation, but they come out cracked and quivering. "You _knew_ it was me and you made me watch.” She pushes against him suddenly, sending him stumbling backwards. "You _bastard_."

He shakes his head, a trace of his anger dissipating, and reaches for her. "River--" he tries, but she pushes him again, harder, his back bumping the TARDIS softly. 

"You _knew!_ " 

"Everybody dies, River," he snaps, righting himself and moving into the open space of her kitchen. "You of all people know that."

Her eyes widen in pain and disbelief. "And you thought I could just let that go?" she whispers fiercely, her lungs tight and breathing shallow and the world is spinning slightly, gravity changing, molecules shifting. She stares at him nakedly, brokenly, and he looks away, lips tight and eyes shadowed. "Did you?" she demands, a little stronger. He remains silent, furious and yet humbled, trapped between black and white and her voice, shaking as she nearly screams: "Answer me!"

"I needed you there," he says flatly, unable to settle on a feeling or thought. "Needed to trust you--"

"So I could destroy you later?" she gasps out, holding a hand to her chest like she can barely breathe. 

"It was my time, River!" he shouts, but her voice covers his, frantic and shrill: 

"Not by my hand!" 

He stills. The room is suddenly too quiet, too empty, and he drops his head and sighs. When he glances back, expecting understanding or commiseration or at the least respect, all he sees is pain. Like he's destroyed everything she holds dear in a single line. The realisation - her words, his anger, the shots across the beach, everything unfolding and refolding in his mind, hundreds of years and moments and places and _here, now_ , the look on her face - hits him with enough force that he stumbles, disciplined by the obviousness of it. 

"River…" he tries softly, but she shakes her head. 

"No." 

He moves closer but she flinches away and he stops, stunned, and for the first time he looks, really _looks_ at her - pale skin and damp eyes and marks on her skin he's never seen before; she's resting her weight against the table, one hand flat on its surface and the other arm curled around her stomach. She looks so _dull_ , so grey, so improper, and it starts to make sense, to settle in his bones that which he refused to admit. She moves jerkily to the side, bracing herself over the counter, hands against the wood, her back to him, hair shielding her face. She doesn't turn, and it terrifies him so, her stillness. 

"River," he whispers. His shoulders drop and his fists relax and she inhales shakily but her throat catches on a sob and he's by her side, trying to turn her, trying desperately to see her face. "River, look at me," he begs when she tries to pull away. She's shaking, barely upright, a hand pressed to her lips and her eyes closed and he doesn't know what he was thinking, coming here like this. His voice breaks on her name and he folds his arms around her without a second thought. She bends into him effortlessly, bones aligning, hands reaching out to curl into his collar, her face pressed tightly against his chest. "It's all right," he soothes. One hand tangles in her hair, the other runs up and down her spine, pressing her impossibly closer. "It's okay, it's okay," he promises, just above her broken admission, 

"I _couldn't._ "

The Doctor closes his eyes, exhaling, her words reverberating along his skin. 

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I couldn't… I _can't_ \--" 

He presses his lips to her hair and shakes his head. "It's okay, it'll be okay." Softer, on a prayer: "I'm still here." 

She breaks, then. Body heaving with silent cries, hands running frantically over his chest and shoulders and face. Her hands are cold and damp, from her tears or his he doesn't know, and he brushes her hair back repeatedly. She meets his gaze finally, staring up at him with wet, red-rimmed eyes and he stops breathing, stops thinking. Open and unguarded, he can feel it, everything, all her love and pain and guilt, everything she's ever felt for him unshadowed, her mind clear and full and her hearts beating hastily, an echo in the room so loud and so wrought: _Forgive me._ She stares at him, eyes wide, hands clinging to his shoulders as if she'd otherwise fall. 

There's a new scar across her eye from her temple to her cheek, burn marks on her neck and a lilt to her posture, all new, all rewrites. His hearts break again and again and this, this sacrifice - he cups her cheeks in his palms and breathes her name and kisses her with everything - a thousand years of time and space pouring past his lips, tears for planets and stars and skies and she kisses him back as if its the last thing she'll ever do and all the while she's pleading with him, begging him to understand. 

"I couldn't," she whispers, over and over against his mouth. He kisses her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, every bit of skin he can reach. "I'm sorry. I couldn't, I had to do something. I had to. I had to." 

“You just rewrote your own history,” he murmurs, unable to keep the fear and awe from his voice. Then, finally, what propelled him here and sparked his anger and left him cold: “I could have lost you.” 

It’s barely a whisper, more of a prayer, and the words echo around them, attaching themselves to particles and sound. “I could have lost you,” he breathes, a desperate edge to his tone, and she cups his cheek in her palm.

“Some things are fixed, my love.” 

Time is still rewriting itself, still weaving; he can feel the strings of it wrapping and fraying in his mind; new stories added, old stories missing, but through it all she’s still there, still clinging to his hand as they run. He doesn’t believe in gods or demons or tricksters, but he thanks them all regardless; her body warm and soft and close and _safe._

"River,” he murmurs, drawing out her name, rocking just slightly on his heels, his mind whispering songs and lullabies to hers. "How did this happen?" he asks, though it isn't really a question; he knows the answer - it stares at him every time she does, so plain it nearly hurts. River pulls back just slightly, still leaning into his touch. He brushes his thumbs back and forth across her skin, over the red and white line, soft and warm. "My most fearsome enemy…" She shudders, just slightly, and he shakes his head. "My greatest protector."

She closes her eyes and exhales and he can't help it; he kisses her, a barely-there brush of skin to skin; a tinge of salt. _I love you,_ she says, though the words don't pass her lips. 

_I know._

 

*

 

Every year, the people of the Gamma Forests leave a ring of flowers around the Bone Meadows. They celebrate and offer prayers to the stars, and sing the songs of children, lost and found. Every year, a woman watches them from a distance, caressed in shadows and slivers of light. They never see her, never hear her, but she owns the forests here, the waters. The pebbles shaped like stars and the stars shaped like moons and she owns them all, holds them in her hand with a whisper of a tune long since forgotten by the rest of them. 

She never stays too long; the electricity barely dissipates before it sparks again; she's the Forests' best keep secret, save to one. 

The Doctor steps beside her, looking down at the canyon - flowers in all colours and shapes, transforming the ugly, barren land into a garden, a sanctuary. Children skip over the buried bones, laughter decorating the air. They'll all die, he knows - the flowers. Flatted into dust. She knows it, too, and without a word he grips her hand tightly, his ring pressing into their skins. She turns and smiles, her mind open and her thoughts calm and he kisses her forehead tenderly. 

"Ready?" he asks. She nods, but doesn't move, just presses herself tighter against his side, head on his shoulder. "Where to next?" she asks, and he smiles; whispers:

"Everywhere."

\--

_They start out as fairy tales:_

_Once upon a time, through all of space, a doctor ran. He ran from the Silence, and from the echoes, and from Time itself. He ran until the day he died, the day he didn't die, the day that never should have been._

_She doesn't believe in fairy tales anymore, and knows without a shadow of a doubt that there's a far simpler truth: that deep within the Forests and deep within Space, the Doctor will always run._

_The Doctor runs, and the songs run, and the trees run, and the River stays calm and cool and deep.  
_


End file.
